


She Will Astound You

by Debate



Category: Baccano!
Genre: Ficlet Collection, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 17:16:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6865720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Debate/pseuds/Debate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets focused on the amazing woman of Baccano!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ennis - Grey Tones

Ennis wakes herself each morning. She dresses sharply in the clothes provided for and washes her face in the washbin next to her bed. In the hours before her master awakes she organizes his files and cleans his lab tables. She cooks meals with the groceries she purchases on the weekends and watches her master as he eats. Some days he will command her to run his errands with sharp eyes that don’t allow for the possibility of disobedience. The thought of which doesn’t ever cross her mind. Questions run off his slippery tongue and she answers them all while looking at the space between his eyes. She remains stock as he berates her and she does not hide away from his cold fury. Instead she eliminates her mistakes.

She is just a tool. 

She deserves nothing. 

She sees happiness only when she drives. Children laughing and playing on the streets, families holding hands. She hears happiness only on the warbling songs of the radio, her master does not praise her. 

Ennis doesn’t not smile for twelve years. 

She wants to smile as she jumps from the hood of the car, knife in hand. Isaac and Miria’s brows are pursed in fright and confusion as her last words to them echo in their ears. So she does smile, quietly, happily, as she stabs the source of all her struggles. She ignores the pain that races through her body, instead thinks of everything she wants to tell her new-found friends, who had, for the shortest window of her life, given her a simple happiness.


	2. Maria Barcelito - Frantic and Fidgety

Bouncing her leg beneath the card table was doing nothing to sedate her impatience. Her hands were not meant to rest. They were meant to wield her swords, which were meant to slash. Why couldn’t Mr. Luck understand that? She gripped Murasamia in her hand, well she could always find something to slash…

…the curtains in the gambling parlor may not have been the best choice, or at least, that was what Mr. Luck was groaning about now. But the itch in her fingers hadn’t left yet. Slashing carpets and curtains and cables were satisfactory, but it wasn’t satisfying.

She needed a respectable opponent, one who could dash and dance around her deadly blades and make Maria retreat on her agile feet only to strike out again with more strength behind her swings. Then her foe would fight with all their force, and Maria would answer with an attack so strong her rival would be unable to retaliate, thus making the moment when her blades bit flesh so much sweeter, aware that her adversary had given their all into the action and still fell on her katana’s blade…

But she was stuck squirming in a stupid speakeasy when there were battles to be sought.


	3. Eve Genoard - Shifts

The day she stood for a photographer with her brother, Eve Genoard admired another photograph that sat framed by her bedside. It had been taken nearly 10 years ago when Eve was little more than a baby balanced on her mother’s thigh.

Her mother, God rest her soul, would not be present for the photo, nor would her eldest brother or father, who were always away a work. But Eve hardly minded for her second brother still resided at the house with her, and kept her company.

She heard Benjamin call for her from downstairs, the photographer had arrived. Eve greeted him warmly and instructed him to set up the camera on the steps outside the house. Eve waited in the foyer for Dallas and berated herself for not thinking to make sure he hadn’t overslept. But she hadn’t needed to worry, Dallas trotted down the stairs not long after, he tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow.

“Don’t you look very grown up today Eve!” He admired and she smiled proudly.

They stood outside for the photograph, Dallas, bashful in front of the camera, needed Eve’s gentle smile to coax out a small grin as the bright flash of the camera captured the moment.

Eve thanked the photographer once more before returning indoors. She voiced her desire to go walk in the gardens, when her voiced stilled upon glimpsing the pale concern wrought over the butler, Benjamin’s, face.

“Is everything quite alright?” She prodded innocently.

“Oh, Miss Eve I don’t quite know how to tell you, but a call just came in, and, it appears that Mr. Genoard and Mr. Jeffrey Genoard have been killed! Your brother is on the phone now,”

Eve’s hand flew to her mouth, shock and sadness written across her face. Yet she hadn’t even the time to call out before a great crash erupted from the room over.

“Dallas!” Eve cried as she burst into the room. He had thrown a vase against a wall. The receiver still hung from the telephone, swaying in a maniac wind.

“Dallas, please stop,” Eve begged.

“Shut up!” Dallas yelled, kicking a chair till it’s wooden leg broke. “They fuckin’ killed them Eve, till they were fuckin’ dead!” Eve’s hands flew to her ears after hearing the cuss words, and she tried one more time,

“Please Dallas, wrath is a sin…”

“I said shaddup!” Dallas howled, turning to face Eve for the first time. She hiccuped, the absolute fury in her brother’s eyes brought her to tears. Eve’s tears stopped Dallas’ ire in their tracks.

“Hey, hey, Eve, please don’t cry,” Dallas asked softly, stumbling over to her and stroking her hair.

“B-but-” she weeped, her voice shaking and tears running off her face.

“Shhh, why don’t we take you up to bed,” Dallas soothed, “have a little nap,”

“Ok-kay, but you have to promise, y-you won’t be a-angry anymore, please,” Eve asked as Dallas rubbed her back and led her upstairs to her room.

“Anything for my baby sister,”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The photograph:
> 
> http://images5.fanpop.com/image/polls/1109000/1109065_1346151465186_full.png


	4. Renee Paramedes Branvillier - Sterile

Fascinating. Truly, the intricacies of the human hand were captivating.

Such a fragile limb was responsible for so much of human achievement.

Yet it was so easy for those bones to pop, to snap, to break beyond repair. What was life like without dexterity?

Her specimen hiccuped, cheeks still chubby with baby fat. Tiny hands, once used to grip tightly to one of her fingers, now hung limply against the lab table, tendons torn and nerves broken to render them unfeeling.

Renee tapped her scalpel eagerly against the hard metal of the table to the rhythm of a lullaby she once knew.

“Hush, little baby…” She began to sing.


	5. Kate Gandor - Wind Chimes at Dusk

The piano in the living room is a guilty pleasure, its quality far superior to most that she had played on before, and far beyond any that she had owned before. The deep brown of the wood shined till it glistened and reflected her face back to her. She sat in front of the white keys, fingers stretching for a moment before pressing down once, firmly on middle C, the sharp ping resonated in the room, perfectly in tune. A C Major scale followed, tones rising and flowing in harmony. 

The simplicity of playing was cathartic, a habit of muscle memory resulting from years of hard practice. The song itself was simple, one she had learned in her early teens and name she had since forgotten, but it reminded her of her childhood home. Of days when her mother’s bread could be smelt rising in the kitchen and her brothers’ shouts heard as they played in the streets. Her fingers hovered over the instrument, pressing lightly to the spots that would play the right tone. It reached its climax quickly and fell smoothly like how it had risen and the song decrescendoed to an end. Kate removed her hands from the keys and clasped them in her skirt. She closed her eyes and let the last echoes of the song surround her, reminding her of a time before she had to worry about gun and gangs, and if there would be an empty place setting at the dinner table at the day’s conclusion.


	6. Sickle - Whirlwind

Despite the grace that could be found in both Sickle’s attire and method of fighting, the woman herself was a storm. And if an unassuming person where to look past her clothing and features alone they may have found that the homunculus’ face was skewed with brows drawn in tight, and mouth in an unflattering frown.

Last night’s rain didn’t lend itself to Sickle’s sour mood. Her feet made disgusting squelching noises in the mud as she trekked through the riverbed. It made her legs sink into the ground and restricted the freedom of movement she was accustomed to. This, on top of yesterday’s unsavory circumstances, made the world seem to weigh heavy and press in on Sickle’s skull. It bore into her brain and left her with a throbbing headache. 

The river itself was still gushing to her right, the water an opaque grey. The sound of the water beating against the ground did little to ease her pounding headache. She had, as she often did, the strange and urgent desire to kick her problems until they went away. But even Sickle in her irritability knew that a flying kick would do nothing to stop the force of nature.


	7. Niki - Flameless Candle

She drank without knowing the contents of the glass.

Irony didn’t really suit her.

Death, to Niki, had been a promise, a hope, a place to find. Now it was out of reach, her life laid out for her indefinitely, in a cruel sense of fate.

The pain was the same though.

Sometimes it was the burns stretching, tight, tight, tight, across her skin. Or her jaw, when it hurt to eat, to talk, to keep breathing.

Other times it was the memory, of children she still cherished, of friends who left too soon, or of men she shouldn’t have loved.

But she met each morning with a smile, believing it might be the day she fulfilled a promise, and finally found somewhere where she could end.


	8. Patisserie Lady - Sweet and Sour

She had grown up in a town in the North, it had been relatively small, but it had also been near a major river and was occupied in the early years of the succession. Her father had died when she was young, and her mother didn’t like the idea for the two of them to be alone in a town occupied by soldiers, so they had fled to the south.

Rumors had reached them of a city that had remained untouched by the succession, and so they moved there, to Lotto Valentino.

She and her mother had established a residence a few blocks from the center of town. It wasn’t long before her mother declares the bakeries in the town to be completely unsatisfactory, and it is hardly a week before their oven is churning out delicacies by the dozen to the surprise and warm welcome of their neighbors.

They’ve been in Lotto Valentino for little more than two months when her mother dies. A bizarre accident kills her, a cut from a knife that wouldn’t stop bleeding.  
She misses her mother terribly.

She learns it wasn’t an accident. The town isn’t as safe as she and her mother had once hoped. But instead of the outside world battering down at their walls, the town seems content to devour itself from the inside out.

She’s offered a cut of their profits if she’s willing to help. The old woman who offers her the deal had ordered a pain du chocolat every morning and complimented her curls, and now she suggests quite happily that she should invest in child slavery.

She declines with as much grace as she can muster before throwing up outside the window.

Time marches on slowly, and Monica, her kind-hearted assistant, leaves. The town seems to improve slightly after the commotion with the Dormentaires, but business is the same even though the customers seem to be different, happier maybe, or perhaps the same horrifying evilness blanketed with kind words and soft smiles.

So she keeps baking, in the hope that if anything can save them, it will be a reminder in the form of a pastry, that there are still honest people, and goodness, in the world.


	9. Rachel - Glitter in the Air

Rachel walked through the quaint town, keeping a sharp eye open for an inn where she could stay the night.

The town was on the small side, compared to the big cities she was accustomed to, but would probably be dubbed by locals as a bustling metropolis, especially in Montana. It had it’s own train station after all, and more than one general store. However an inn couldn’t be found in the town square. After a brief moment of hesitation she approached a man pushing a cart through the road.

“Sorry sir, but is there anywhere around here where I could get a place to sleep?” she asked quickly moving to remove her bandanna, thinking it would make her look less intimidating.

“Nope, but but the grass on the east side of town is as soft as a baby blanket if you’re interested,” the man answered, indicating with his head the area he spoke of.  
Rachel thanked him and moved toward the edge of town. The weather was mild enough, even as the sun began to set, and Rachel rather thought that sleeping on the grass could be quite enjoyable.

As the wind blew her hair blew with it, and her shoulders fidgeted at the unfamiliar tickle across her neck. The man had not lied as when he said the grass was soft, she flopped down without grace and kicked off her boots once she deemed she was a reasonable distance from the town. She shrugged off her jacket and bundled it beneath her head, laying in the field with only her dark turtleneck on. The sun had barely fell beneath the horizon when her eyes closed and sleep took her.

She awoke some hours later when the night was completely black. She looked to the left, where the sound that had awaken her originated. The train chugged on, but did not stop at the town’s station. Even as it disappeared out of sight, the rumble of its engine could be heard in the utter stillness of the night. Unaccustomed to the complete quiet, Rachel stood, suddenly feeling very much awake. The wind blew again, and the grass blew with it and it nearly knocked Rachel over on her tired feet. The wind rushed through her hair and swooshed in her ears.

Joy swelled from deep within her gut and expelled itself through her laugh, leaving her the happiest she had been since the first time her father left.  
Rachel had never been one to dance, but her feet and mind hardly seemed to care about what she usually did. She sprung forward, bare feet twirling through the soft grass for long minutes until her breath was spent and she fell to the ground, still laughing.

She looked up, surprised at the stars twinkling back at her, she never saw this many stars in the city, and the sheer scope of their range sucked in her breath, never before had she seen anything quite so beautiful.

She exhaled and felt alive.


	10. Nice Holystone - Damp Basement

Her father skipped town without saying goodbye to his wife or infant daughter, also leaving behind most of his possessions.

So it happened that when she was just about eight and finally able to see above the work table that Nice Holystone began to play with her father’s forgotten materials.  
Her mother was in the sweatshop almost all day, so if Nice did her chores quickly in the morning she would have a few hours in the afternoon to play with the old chemicals.  
She learned through observation. Sometimes if she mixed them together they would turn a vibrant or exciting color. Other times they might pop or fix, sometimes they’de spontaneously light on fire; that was Nice’s favorite. But other times nothing would happen at all, leaving Nice to stare at the mason jar she used to mix the chemicals waiting for something that would never happen.

Most people would never know it, but Nice Holystone was a very clever child. Each of her father’s materials were clearly labeled, and at first the series of letters and numbers had been largely irrelevant, but as she grew and learned and observed she came to notice that a correlation could be found between the jars that would produce a reaction and those that wouldn’t.

She made lists designed to catalogue the findings of her experiments, sometimes she was even able to predict the outcomes. So she aimed to find bigger results more fire, more pop, more pizzaz.

She brought matches into the equation. After all, everything looked cooler when it was on fire.

Even her.


	11. Lucrezia de Dormentaire - Honeysuckle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // contains light sexual themes

If you decided to ask people about their feelings on the Dormentaire Family, you would be met with smiles and cheerful voices speaking of their charity and benevolence.  
Perhaps these people would have smiles that stretched too taut against their faces, eyes shaking and scanning for a place of easy exit.

One did not speak badly of the Dormentaire Family.

Usually.

Maybe if you stayed up late in a tavern, near the edge of town, you might hear scant whispers of a different sort. The family’s power may be addressed, or maybe the–eccentricities–of certain family members.

You might have to suffer through another drab speculation of the circumstances of Gardi Dormentaire’s murder; but maybe, if you were lucky, and in the company of a few boisterous men (or daring women), you would be recounted with a tale about her Ladyship.

These tales are almost indiscriminately raunchy, befitting a rather seedier establishment than the one you currently occupy. The stories themselves almost always start the same, with a description of her fingers. Long and slender, a slight rise at the knuckle, ten pristine fingernails on immaculate nailbeds. The tale would continue to chronicle the slope of her neck, the juncture at her collarbone, and would not grow any less daring as it told about the swell of her breasts, the sleekness of her curves.

Maybe your mouth would grow dry as the story concluded, slightly mystified by the vividness of the story that had been recycled among people who had never even laid eyes on the Lady. A blush might creep up your cheeks, and your pillow would feel far too cold when you went to bed that night.

Or maybe, you would have been wiser, and have never asked about the House Dormentaire at all.


	12. Sylvie Lumiere - Reflections

On the piano, next to the tip jar there was a vase that held a single flower. The establishment had not wanted to weigh down the piano with one of the larger bouquets that sat in the center of each table. She performed each night and day by day the flower seemed to wilt. The vibrance it held on her first day there lasted but a scant few hours before the water started turning green and the petals started to dry.

During her last song on the third day, the head of the flower snapped over the edge of the vase and fell with a silent plop to the top of the spotless piano.

She stared at it as the audience clapped politely. Her throat felt dry and the applause did nothing to soothe her.

The following evening a replacement flower had been put into the vase with little ado, and leaned on the side of the glass container in a muted imitation of its predecessor.  
She bent her head to catch a whiff of its fragrance when the action was interrupted,

“Don’t bother, it’s fake,” her pianist said as he rearranged his sheet music.

It was indeed unreal, a mockery to the vividness of the previous day’s flower. And while it’s head would never fall, the false flower lacked both the life and beauty that existed in reality.

Sylvie turned her head from it sharply and refused to gaze upon for the remainder of the night.


	13. Illness - Sunny Days in the Shade

Illness wasn’t accustomed to the color pink. This particular shade was a light pastel that reminded Illness of soft cotton sheet or delicate flower petals. It was a soft contrast to the sharpness of the deep and vibrant red which she saw all too much of.

The pink color didn’t convey the depth of sadness that the black under her eyes or on her dress did. It didn’t match the sick color of yellow.

Illness wondered if she was betraying something in her nature by refusing to adopt the yellow color anymore than she already had. But, no, she wasn’t illness personified, she was a girl, like Claudia said. So she continued to coat her nails in the light rose shade, like Claudia had taught her, she wasn’t actually sick after all. She could be soft and delicate and pretty if she wanted.


	14. Aging - Blood, Sweat, and Strawberries

She acknowledged that what she was doing was counterintuitive.

She knew that there was little point in going to the gym for three hours each morning if she was gonna stop into the cafe next door and order a slice of strawberry shortcake everyday.

But, she considered as her fork sliced through the rich dessert, if she had to deal with with sweaty locker rooms, and noodly men asking if she had too much weight on when she benched; if she had to put up with the crap the radio called music, and ignorant fools who would show up twice before quitting and never replaced their equipment, then she damn well deserved a reward.

And if that reward happened to be her one vice, a succulent cake filled with ripe red berries and topped with smooth and sweet whipped cream, well then she really wouldn’t berate herself too much.


	15. Monica Campanella - Sharpened Pencils

She wasn’t afraid.

She wasn’t.

It was just school. Just a library. It couldn’t break her.

They were just people. They didn’t know who she used to be, they’d accept her just the way she was. Who she was. Who she is.

Monica Campanella.

Monica wasn’t afraid. She wanted to make friends. She wanted to learn.

And she was Monica.

She felt her cheeks flush, not from embarrassment, but from determination as she entered the room.

“My name is Monica Campanella,” she announced, her voice just as strong as she felt. “And I’m here to learn alchemy,”

She didn’t stutter once.

Her classmates smiled at her.

She wasn’t afraid.

She wasn’t.


	16. Natalie Beriam - Fool's Gold

She hated politics.

Hated the deception and lies. Bribes and blackmail handed over and spoken in civil conference rooms by people who swore to work for the betterment of the country.  
Hated how they turned noble and idealistic men into unloving, greedy, selfish fools.

Hated how she had been swept up in the glamour, in the fancy dinners and fine wine. To preoccupied by luxurious houses and dazzling pearls to realize that the bright-eyed young man she had married had become nothing more than than an avaricious shell.

And she hated how she had become nothing more than a prop to hang off his arm.

Had it all been deceit? Those early days when he was a fresh-faced university student brimming with ideas and solutions, and blush tinting his cheeks when he’d offered to take her to dinner, had that been a ruse to acquire a wife? To establish himself as a family man, to have someone there to compliment the other wives while the men smoked cigars and had a ‘real talk’? To keep secrets from? Did they ever have a partnership? Had he ever offered any part of himself when they exchanged vows on what she had once thought the happiest day of her life?

She felt almost certain that it was. An elaborate lie constructed to break her heart by a man incapable of love.

Mostly she hated that she had brought her daughter into that lie. Another tool in her husband’s arsenal, their daughter, sweet and joy-filled and innocent, had no place in her husband’s warzone of intrigue.

But she continued to sip champagne and pretend she wasn’t rueful as her arm was laced with his, because she couldn’t run, couldn’t get away with staying with her parents for than more than a few weeks. Her husband had crosshairs aimed at her head, ones that spoke of “love” and “loyalty” and other things he didn’t understand, yet refused to raise a fingers when she literally stared down the barrel of a gun.

Such was the world of politics.


	17. Chane Laforet - Greenhouse

Silence she finds, more often than not, equates to invisibility. She cannot talk so she is unseen, like a potted plant that needs to be watered to sustain, but remains overlooked for the rest of the time.

But being a potted plant suits her fine, it allows her vines to grow and stretch and strangle those who plotted her, if ever she so wished. If nothing else it gives her a flexibility, like that of seeds scattered in the wind, that the rest of the so called “ghosts” could only hope to posses.

The Lemures certainly make no attempt at invisibility, decked in black while boasting and shouting through radios. Chane believes that they would be unable to grow, the weight from their heads bending and breaking fragile stalks.

Such is the fate of egos built atop secondhand dreams.

Perhaps, if they quieted themselves, made an attempt at observation, they would be able to strengthen their roots and accomplish something they actually believe, something they want for themselves.

But, alas, Chane can’t tell them that.


	18. Miria Harvent - In Which The Title Is Quite As Long As It Ought To Be On All Occasions Whatsoever (And Has An Appropriate Amount Of Capital Letters Thank-You-Very-Much)

Miria Harvent is quite attached to all sorts of people. She loves meeting people, and being around people, for it is the quickest and bestest way to make friends.

And friends are all that Miria Harvent could ever hope for, really.

You could cry with a friend, or laugh with them, or play a prank. You could go shopping with them and build forts and sip tea at odd hours in the morning. You could get presents for your friends for no good reason at all (which is secretly the best reason). You can love your friends, and hug them and tell them that they make you exorbitantly happy.

And Miria Harvent is not one to do anything by halves, so she loves every friend she has ever made with every particle in her body, because everyone ought to be loved a lot, she finds that it makes people quite happy, and to be happy, Miria believes, is all everyone ever deserves.


	19. Carla Alvarez Santonia - Iron Door

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> // references to period-typical homophobia and sexism

It wasn’t any sort of grand epiphany. Not even a quiet realization, if anything it was simply confirmation of something she had always known. The conclusion to the natural course of events.

She’s lucky that she had long since come to accept it before she reached adulthood. Before her family began to suggest ill-conceived notions of marriage and motherhood.  
It takes very little to convince her family that joining the guard is the right choice. They recognize it as noble, and she’s a third daughter anyway.

If they begin to suspect something once she’s announced her intended profession they never acknowledge it, more than likely happy to have her out of the house, out of sight, and out of mind.

She throws herself into her training with vigor, enjoying the physical strain as she tones her muscles and reflexes.

She’s surprised when she’s selected for training in a leadership position, her arrival had not been accepted cordially, and even after she’s proven herself to her male comrades on numerous occasions a disconnect remains.

She chooses to channel her dedication inwards strengthening herself instead of releasing her energy outwards to seek acceptance from those unwilling to give it. She refuses to be walked over.

Discovering the determination and strength she has built for herself is something of a grand epiphany. Even more so the begrudging respect that she begins to gain from her peers.  
Discovering how much she loves being a guard, how she loves to serve is more akin to a quiet realization. She has created for herself a new identity, one not defined by who she is attracted to, nor her sex, but by the accomplishments of her own merits.


	20. Carol - Hitting a Home Run

It’s a game.

She knows they’re playing, figured it out ages ago, but it’s still a matter of her pride, she wants to win, needs to, and he won’t even reveal what the game is.

She wants to throttle him because of sheer frustration.

That’s how she knows she’s losing.

And losing is unacceptable.

So she has to change the game.

“It isn’t enough to plan ahead,” he drawls one morning on the other side of the chess board, “You must anticipate your opponent. Know their weaknesses and strengths, consider how they think, then, and only then, may you construct a plan to trap them,” he glided his bishop across the board, “checkmate.”

She kept her face blase as she watched the bishop knock against her king, the black piece teetering back and forth twice before falling on it’s side. She glanced up to meet his eyes.

“145 points,”

He smiled, teeth peeking out from between his lips.

“Out of how many?”


	21. Lua Klein - China Cabinet

It hadn’t been her fault.

She’d just been running in the halls, even though the governess always told her not to; but the governess also said that running was usually good for a young lady, so really she couldn’t be blamed.

Except now she’d knocked into a table, and the vase on top had swayed, fell on it’s side, and shattered against the floor.

The pieces of broken glassware sparkled around her like glitter, catching the light from the large windows. She sat mesmerised in the pile of glass as the light bounced off bits of crystal, dancing like fairies.

“Oh, Ms. Klein, what have I told you about running indoors!” her governess interrupted. “Oh and look at the fine mess you made! Stand up carefully so you don’t cut yourself, silly child,”

“Can I keep it?” She asked eyes still glued to the shards even as she rose to obey.

“Don’t be silly. A broken vase isn’t a toy, you’ll hurt yourself,” the old woman berated. 

And Lua was never a child to cause a scene, so she carefully walked around the broken glass, her hands clasped close together to hide the shard that was digging into her palms. She tucked it into her frock when the Governess’ back was turned, running her finger along the dangerous edge all the while.


	22. Melody - Waiting Room

She doesn’t remember where she heard those words, maybe on the radio or written somewhere in the paper. All she remembers is that sinking dread, the cold that strikes out from the pit of her stomach.

Time is an illusion

No, she tells herself as she grabs her arms, that’s not true. She can feel the ticks of the watches against her skin. She sees Chiani grow, everyone gets fatter because of Fang’s cooking, she counts down with everyone on New Year’s, and flips the pages through her calender. Time passes, she’s sure of it, but just in case, she calls out the seconds, the minutes, the hours, her words make it true, make her stable as she stamps the concreteness of every passing moment in the fabric of the universe.

Time is real she has to tell herself, as her heart beats in counterpoint to each passing second, only time is real.

Nothing happens without time, she thinks as the instinctual metronome ticks in her head.


	23. Liza Laforet - Tinsel

The rings were shiny so she wanted them.

She didn’t recognize that her affinity for objects that reflected and refracted light was most likely born from the instincts of a flock of falcons that she shared a consciousness with, she only recognized the fact that they were so pretty.

She found out they were sharp and she wanted them even more.

She did recognize that this instinct was most likely born from spending a large amount of her time with a group of bloody thirsty murderers (one of which had very sharp claws for hands).

When she learned how they worked she thought that she might explode if she didn’t get her hands on them.

They spun through the air like frisbees (that she saw children play with at parks, that she sometimes played with at parks) and they made such a sharp, sweet sound, like when you rubbed your finger along the rim of a crystal glass.

She was filled with such glee when she found out that the chakrams were everything she wanted them to be.


	24. Adele -

Her hair grew at an outstanding rate, one that normal people would find odd, if she ever interacted with them.

It used to be that for months she would grow it out and it would weigh down her head. Curls of thick blond hair would curl and twist, clump together in knots that couldn’t be pulled apart.

It was an accident the first time she cut it, the twirl of her spear caught the blade in her hair and the tug to remove it cut half her hair in a choppy line. Yellow strands of spun gold fluttered to the floor.

Tim told her to chop of the rest, refused to help her as he shoved a pair of scissors into her hands with a look that might have been angry, or frustrated, or sad.

Her first haircut was uneven, the ends refusing to result in a straight line despite her efforts. But it took hardly any time at all for the dragging weight to return to the base of her skull.

Her second haircut was only marginally better than the first, she had shorn it even shorter than the first time, in an effort to allow her hair to swing free unweighted for longer, but it was not to be.

By her seventh haircut she learned to copy a design from a magazine cover to the best of her ability, so that the hair circled around her ears instead of falling into them, and the hairs in the back remained close to her skull.

Her head felt even lighter.

When she happened across a mirror she thought it looked fitting.


	25. Claudia Walken - Lights, Camera...

The spotlight was an amazing place. 

The way the light traced behind her, following her movements and actions as loyal as any fan. 

The utter stillness of the surrounding audience, their silence so rapt with attention it’s like they’re hardly present at all. Except their wordless enthusiasm races up the stage to meet her, a boundless and indescribable feeling that soaks through her skin and pulses into her blood like pure energy. 

The circle of brilliance is the only thing in the world except her. 

After all, it’s only fitting that the center of the world should have a halo around her.


End file.
